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The youths whose locks divinely spreading,
Like vernal hyacinths in sullen hue,
At once the breath of fear and virtue shedding,
Applauding Freedom lov'd of old to view!
What new Alceus, fancy-blest,

Nor e'er her former pride relate
To sad Liguria's bleeding state.
Ah, no! more pleas'd thy haunts I seek
On wild Helvetia's mountains bleak,
(Where when the favour'd of thy choice,
The daring archer, heard thy voice;
Forth from his eyrie rous'd in dread,
The ravening eagle northward fled :)
Or dwell in willow'd meads more near,
With those to whom thy stork is dear;
Those whom the rod of Alva bruis'd;
Whose crown a British queen refus'd!
The magic works, thou feel'st the strains,
One holier name alone remains:
The perfect spell shall then avail,
Hail, Nymph, ador'd by Britain, hail!

Shall sing the sword in myrtles drest, [cealing,
At Wisdom's shrine awhile its flame con-
(What place so fit to seal a deed renown'd?)
Till she her brightest lightnings round re-
vealing,
[wound!
It leap'd in glory forth, and dealt her prompted
O Goddess, in that feeling hour,
When most its sounds would court thy ears,
Let not my shell's misguided pow'r
Eer draw thy sad, thy mindful tears.
No, Freedom, no, I will not tell,
How Rome, before thy face,
With heaviest sound, a giant-statue, fell,
-Push'd by a wild and artless race,
From off its wide ambitious base,
When Time his northern sons of spoil awoke,
And all the blended work of strength and
With many a rude repeated stroke, [grace,
And many a barbarous yell, to thousand frag-He

ments broke.

EPODE.

Yet, ev'n where'er the least appear'd,
Th' admiring world thy hand rever'd;
Still, 'midst the scatter'd states around,
ome remnants of her strength were found:
They saw, by what escap'd the storm,
How wondrous rose her perfect form;
low in the great, the labour'd whole,
ach mighty master pour'd his soul;
'or sunny Florence, seat of art,
leneath her vines preserv'd a part,
All they whom science lov'd to name

O who could fear it?) quench'd her flame.
ind, lo, an humbler relic laid

n jealous Pisa's olive shade!

ee smalt Marino joins the theme,
hough least, not last in thy esteem.
trike, louder strike, th' ennobling strings

o those whose merchant sons, were kings;
o him who, deck'd with pearly pride,
Adria weds his green-hair'd bride:
fil, port of glory, wealth, and pleasure,
Ne'er let me change this Lydian measure;

ANTISTROPHE.

Beyond the measure vast of thought,
The works the wizard Time has wrought,

The Gaul, 'tis held of antique story,
Saw Britain link'd to his now adverse strand †,
No sea between, nor cliff sublime and hoary,

pass'd with unwet feet through all our

land.

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The Dutch: among whom there are very severe penalties for those who are convicted of killing bis bird. They are kept tame in almost all their towns, and particularly at the Hague, of the rms of which they make a part. The common people of Holland are said to entertain a supersti ios sentiment, that if the whole species of them should become extinct, they should lose their iberties.

+ This tradition is mentioned by several of our old historians. Some naturalists too have endea oured to support the probability of the fact, by arguments drawn from the correspondent dispasiion of the two opposite coasts. I do not remeniber that any poetical use has been hitherto made

af it.

There is a tradition in the Isle of Man, that a Mermaid becoming enamoured of a young mau of extraordinary beauty, took an opportunity of meeting him one day as he walked on the shore, and opened her passion to him, but was received with a coldness, occasioned by his horror and surprise at her appearance. This, however, was so misconstrued by the sea-lady, that, in revenge for his treatment of her, she punished the whole island, by covering it with a mist, so that all who attempted to carry on any commerce with it, either never arrived at it, but wandered up and down the sea, or were on a sudden wrecked upon its cliffs.

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SECOND EPODE.

Then too, 'tis said, an hoary pile,
'Midst the green navel of our isle,
Thy shrine in some religious wood,
O soul-enforcing Goddess, stood!
There oft the painted natives feet
Were wont thy form celestial meet:
Though now with hopeless toil we trace
Time's backward-rolls, to find its place;
Whether the fiery-tressy Dane,

Or Roman's self o'erturn'd the fane,
Or in what heaven-left age it fell,
"Twere hard for modern song to tell.
Yet still, if truth those beams infuse,
Which guide at once and charm the Muse,
Beyond yon braided cloud that lie,
Paving the light embroider'd sky:
Amidst the bright pavilion'd plains,
The beauteous model still remains.
There happier than in islands blest,
Or bowers by Spring or Hebe drést,
The chiefs who fill our Albion's story,
In warlike weeds, retir'd in glory,
Hear their consorted Druids sing
Their triumphs to th' immortal string.
How may the poet now unfold
What never tongue or numbers told?
How learn, delighted and amaz'd,
What hands unknown that fabric rais'd?
Ev'n now, before his favour'd eyes,
In Gothic pride-it seems to rise!
Yet Grecia's graceful orders join,
Majestic, through the mix'd design;
The secret builder knew to choose
Each sphere-found-gem of richest hues :
Whate'er heaven's purer mould contains,
When nearer suns emblaze its veins ;
There on the wall the Patriot's sight
May ever hang with fresh delight,
And grav'd with some prophetic rage
Read Albion's fame through every age.
Ye forms divine, ye laureate band,
That near her inmost altar stand!
Now soothe her, to her blissful trai
Blithe Concord's social form to gain.
Concord, whose myrtle wand cau steep
Ev'n Anger's blood-shot eyes in sleep:
Before whose breathing bosom's balin
Rage drops his steel, and storms grow calm.
Her let our sires and matrous hoar
Welcome to Britain's ravag'd shore:
Our youths, enainour'd of the fair,
Play with the tangles of her hair;
Till, in one loud applauding sound,
The nations shout to her around-
O how supremely art thou blest!
Thou, Lady, thou shalt rule the west.

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And mourns the fatal day; While stain'd with blood he strives to tear Unseemly from his sea-green hair

The wreaths of cheerful May;

The thoughts which musing pity pays,
And fond remembrance loves to raise,
Your faithful hours attend:
Still Fancy, to herself unkind,
Awakes to grief the soften'd mind,
And points the bleeding friend.
By rapid Scheld's descending wave,
His country's vows shall bless the grave,
Where'er the youth is laid:
That sacred spot the village hind
With every sweetest turf shall bind,
And Peace protect the shade.

O'er him, whose doom thy virtues grieve,
Aerial forms shall sit at eve,

And bend the pensive head;
And, fallen to save his injur'd land,
Imperial Honour's awful hand

Shall point his lonely bed!
The warlike dead of every age,
Who fill the fair recording page,

Shall leave the sainted rest;
And, half-reclining on his spear,
Each wond'ring chief by turns appear,
To hail the blooming guest.

Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield,
Shall crowd from Cressy's laurel'd field,
And gaze with fix'd delight:
Again for Britain's wrongs they feel,
Again they snatch the gleamy steel,

And with the avenging fight.

But, lo! where sunk, in deep despair,
Her garments torn, her bosom bare,
Impatient Freedon lies!

Her matted tresses madly spread,
To every sad which wraps the dead
She turns her joyless eyes.

Ne'er shall she leave that lowly ground,
Till notes of triumph bursting round

Proclaim her reign restor❜d: Till William seek the sad retreat, And bleeding at her sacred feet

Present the sated sword.

If, weak to sooth so soft an heart,
These pictur'd glories nought impart
To dry thy constant fear;
If yet, in Sorrow's distant eye,
Expos'd and pale thou sec'st him lie,
Wild war insulting near;

Where'er from time thou court'st relief,
The Muse shall still, with social grief,

Her gentlest promise keep:
Ev'n humble Harting's cottage vale
Shall learn the sad repeated tale,

And bid her shepherds, weep.

COLLINS.

$155. Ode to Evening. [Faught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, May hope, chaste Eve, to sooth thy modest Like thy own solemn springs,

Thy springs, and dying gales;

[car,

O nymph reserv'd, while now the bright-hair'd

sun

§ 156. Ode to Peace,

COLLINS.

THOU, who bad'st thy turtles bear
Swift from his grasp thy golden hair,
And sought'st thy native skies:
When war, by vultures drawn from far,
To Britain bent his iron car,
And bade his storms arise!

Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, Tir'd of his rude tyrannic sway,

With brede ethereal wove,
O'erhang his wavy bed:

Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-ev'd
[wing.
With short shrill shriek flies by on leathern

bat

Or where the beetle winds
His small but sullen horn,

As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum:
Now teach me, maid compos'd,
To breathe some soften'd strain,

Whose numbers stealing thro' thy darkening

vale,

May not unseemly with its stillness suit,
As, musing slow, I hail
Thy genial lov'd return!

For when thy folding-star arising shows
His ply circlet, at his warning lamp,
The fragrant hours, and elves
Who slept in buds the day,

And many a nymph who wreathes her brows
with sedge,
[still,
And sheds the freshening dew; and, lovelier
The pensive pleasures sweet,
Prepare thy shadowy car.

Then let me rove some wild and healthy seene,
Or find some ruin midst its dreary dells,
Whose walls more awful nod
By thy religious gleans.

Or if chill blustering winds, or driving rain,
Provent my willing feet, be mine the hut,
That froin the mountain's side
Vi-ws wilds and swelling floods,
And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires,
And bears their simple bell, and marks o'er all
Th wy fingers draw
The gradual dusky veil.

While Spring shall pour his show'rs, as oft he

wont,

And bathe thy breathing tresses, meckest Eve!
While Summer loves to sport
Beneath thy lingering light;
While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves,
Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air,
Affrights thy shrinking train,

And rudely rends thy robes;

So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,

Our

youth shall fix some festive day,
His sullen shrines to burn:
But thou, who hear'st the turning spheres,
What sounds may charm thy partial ears,
And gain thy blest return!
Peace, thy injur'd robes upbindi
O rise, and leave not one behind

Of all thy beamy train :
The British lion, Goddess sweet,
Lies stretch'd on earth to kiss thy feet,

And own thy holier reign.

Let others court thy transient smile,
But come to grace thy western isle,

By warlike Honour led!

And while around her ports rejoice,
While all her sons adore thy choice,
With him for ever wed!

$157. The Manners. An Ode. COLLINS,
FAREWEL, for clearer ken design'd,

The dim-discover'd tracts of mind:
Truths which, from action's paths retir'd,
My silent search in vain requir'd!
No more my sail that deep explores,
No more I search those magic shores,
What regions part the world of soul,
Or whence thy streams, Opinion, roll:
If e'er I round such fairy field,
Some pow'r impart the spear and shield,
At which the wizard passions fly,
By which the giant follies die!

Farewell the porch, whose roof is seen
Arch'd with th'enlivening olive's green,
Where Science, prank'd in tissued vest,
By Reason, Pride, and Fancy drest,
Comes like a bride, so trim array'd,
To wed with Doubt in Plato's shade!

Youth of the quick uncheated sight,
Thy walks, Observance, more invite;
O thou! who lov'st that ampler range
Where life's wide prospects round thee change,
And, with her mingled sons allied,
Throw'st the prattling page aside:
To me in converse sweet impart
To read in man the native heart.
To learn where Science sure is found,
From nature as she lives around:
And gazing oft her mirror true,
By turns each shifting image view!
Till meddling Art's officious lore
Reverse the lessons taught before, A. S
Alluring from a safer rule,

Shall Fancy, Friendship,Science, smiling Peace, To dream in her enchanted school;

Thy gentlest influence own,

And love thy favourite name!

Thou, Heaven, whate'er of great we boast,
Had bless'd this social science most.

9B4

Retiring

Retiring hence to thoughtless cell, As Fancy breathes her potent spell, Not vain she finds the cheerful task, In pageant quaint, in motley mask Behold, before her musing eyes, The countless manners round her rise, While, ever varying as they pass, To some Contempt applies her glass: With these the white-rob'd maids combine, And those the laughing satyrs join! But who is he whom now she views, In robe of wild contending hues? Thou by the passions nurs'd, 1 greet The comic sock that binds thy feet! O Humour, thou whose name is known To Britain's favour'd isle alone, Me too amidst thy band admit, There where the young-ey'd healthful Wit, (Whose jewels in his crisped hair Are plac'd each other's beams to share, Whom no delights from thee divide) In laughter loos'd attends thy side. By old Miletus*, who so long Has ceas'd his love-inwoven song; By all you taught the Tuscan maids, In chang'd Italia's modern shades;

By him whose knight's distinguish'd name
Refin'd a nation's lust of fame;

Whose tales e'en now, with echoes sweet,
Castilia's Moorish hills repeat;

Or him 1, whom Seine's blue nymphs deplore,
In watchet weeds on Gallia's shore.
Who drew the sad Sicilian maid

By virtues in her sire betray'd:

O Natare boon, from whom proceed

Each forceful thought, each proinpted deed;
If but from thee I hope to feel,
On all my heart imprint thy seal!
Let some retreating Cynic find
Those off-turn'd scrolls I leave behind,
The Sports and I this hour agree
To rove thy sceneful world with thee!

§ 158. The Passions. An Ode for Music.
COLLINS.
WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Throng'd around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possest beyond the Muse's painting,
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd:
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd,
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatch'd her instruments of sound;
And, as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,

Each, for Madness rul'd the hour,

Would prove his own expressive pow'r.

First Fear his hand, its skill to try,

Amid the chords bewilder'd laid, And back recoil'd, he knew not why, Ev'n at the sound himself had made.

Next Anger rush, his eyes on fire,

In lightnings own'd his secret strings, In one rude clash he struck the lyre, And swept with hurried hands the strings, With woeful measures wan Despair, Low sullen sounds, his grief beguil'd; A solemn, strange, and mingled air, 'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, What was thy delighted measure? Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail! Still would her touch the strain prolong,

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She call'd on Echo still through all the son; And where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at ever close, [den ha And Hope enchanted smil'd, and way'd her g

And longer had she sung-but with a frown, Revenge impatient rose :

He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down,

And with a withering look,

The war-denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast so loud and dread, Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of w And ever and anon he beat

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• Alluding to the Milesian Tales, some of the earliest romances.

+ Cervantes.

Monsieur Le Sage, author of the incomparable adventures of Gil Blas de Santillane, who died ia

Paris in the year 1746.

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And Sport leap'd up and seiz'd his beechen
Last came Joy's ecstatic trial.
He, with viny crown advancing,

best.

Not with more grief th' afflicted swains appear,
When wintry winds deform the plenteous year;
When lingering frosts the ruin'd seats invade
Where Peace resorted, and the Graces play'd.,

stage.

With kind concern our pitying eyes o'erflow,
Trace the sad tale, and own another's woe.

To Rome remov'd, with wit secure to please,
The comic sisters keep their native ease.
With jealons fear declining Greece beheld
Her own Menander's art almost excell'd!
But every Muse essay'd to raise in vain
Some labour'd rival of her tragic strain;
lissus' laurels, though transferr'd with toil,
Droop'd their fair leaves, nor knew the un-
friendly soil.

First to the lively pipe his hand address'd, But soon he saw the brisk-awakening viol, Whose sweet entrancing voice he lov'd the Toil builds on toil, and age on age improves : Each rising art by just gradation moves, [strain, The Muse alone unequal dealt her rage, They would have thought, who heard the And grac'd with noblest pomp her earliest They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids, [part Amidst the festal sounding shades, Preserv'd through time, the speaking scenes inTo some unwearied minstrel dancing, Each changeful wish of Phædra's tortur'd While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings, heart: [reign; Love fram'd with Mirth a gay fantastic round: Or paint the curse that mark'd the Theban's Loose were her tresses seen, her zone un- bed incestuous, and a father slain. And he, amidst his frolic play, [bound, As if he would the charming air repay, hook thousand odours from his dewy wings. Music, sphere-descended maid, riend of pleasure, wisdom's aid! Thy, Goddess, why to us denied, ay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside? s in that lov'd Athenian bow'r ou learn'd an all-commanding pow'r; by mimic soul, O nymph endear'd! in well recall what then it heard. here is thy native simple heart, evote to virtue, faney, art? rise, as in that elder time, 'arm, energetic, chaste, sublime! by wonders in that godlike age, lthy recording sister's pageis said, and I believe the tale, by humblest reed could more prevail, ad more of strength, diviner rage, san all which charms this laggard age, in all at once together found cilia's mingled world of soundbid our vain endeavours cease, vive the just designs of Greece, turn in all thy simple state, nfirm the tales her sons relate!

As arts expir'd, resistless Dulness rose; Goths, Priests, or Vandals-all were fearning's foes,

Till† Julius first recall'd each exil'd maid,
And Cosmo own'd them in th' Etrurian shade.
Then, deeply skill'd in love's engaging theme,
The soft Provencal pass to Arno's stream:
With graceful ease the wanton fyre he strung,
Sweet flow'd the lays-but love was all he sung.
The gay description could not fail to move;
For, led by nature, all are friends to love.

But heaven, still various in its works, decreed
The perfect boast of time should last succeed..
The beauteous union must appear at length
Of Tuscan fancy and Athenian strength:
One greater Muse Eliza's reign adorn,
And e'en a Shakspeare to her fame be born!
Yet ah! so bright her morning's opening ray,
In vain our Britain hop'd an equal day!

159. An Epistle, addressed to Sir Thomas No second growth the western isle could bear,
Hanmer, on his Edition of Shakspeare's At once exhausted with too rich a year.
COLLINS. Too nicely Jonson knew the critic's part;
WHILE, born to bring the Muse's happier Nature in him was almost lost in art.

Works.

days,

patriot's hand protects a poet's lays;

• The Oedipus of Sophocles,

Of softer mold the gentle Fletcher came,
The next in order, as the next in name:

† Julius II. the immediate predecessor of Leo X.

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